Grace O' Sundays
by phollie
Summary: Gilbert brings him many things, from broken birch branches to stems of centaury to fistfuls of red columbines. Glen and Gilbert - a master and servant flashback. K.


THANK. GOD. THIS. IS. **FINISHED.**

Seriously, I've been working on this thing since the release of the last chapter. Why did it take so long. WHY. ANSWER ME.

.../deep breaths

Anyway. I own nothing, as per usual.

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><p><strong>.grace o' sundays<strong>

/

The boy is truly something else.

On days like these – sweet spring days when the earth is in glorious bloom – it's impossible not to notice. Gilbert, dressed in his play clothes instead of stuffy buckles and buttons, is flitting through the gardens like some dark little bird, black-feathered for his hair but white-winged for the fluttering tails of his shirt. He bobs and weaves through the maze of bushes, arms outstretched and tiny feet carrying him as fast as they can through the beaming wash of sunlight raining down on him. In spite of his excitement, though, he's strangely quiet, not laughing or humming like other children would in the throes of youthful abandon, but instead fixated intently on his destination, eyes wide and alert as if afraid he'll miss something in his wake. He isn't so much a child at play as he is a child on a mission, but all the more content to be just that.

Sitting under the oak tree, Glen watches him, waiting to see what the boy will find next.

Gilbert brings him many things, from broken birch branches to stems of centaury to fistfuls of red columbines; sometimes, he even collects entire clusters of heliotrope and honeysuckle before bustling them over to where Glen sits, thoughtful and silent until breaking in a soft laugh when the boy dumps his prizes out of his frock and into his master's lap. Admittedly, the act would be less endearing were it anyone else, but Glen finds it rather enlightening – Gilbert, for all his timid, doe-like gazes and trembling hands, is a lovely child, his disposition sweet and pure just like the flowers that he plucks for Glen's praises.

Today, the boy brings him bluebells. Gilbert holds the delicate stems with the fragile care that one would hold innocence personified, and offers them out to Glen with a timid stretch of his arm, his eyes bright and cheeks flushed from both exertion and shyness. He seems to consider his usual custom of dropping the flowers into Glen's lap, but changes his mind with a small shake of his head and a softly murmured, "For you, master."

Precious. A soft smile lifts the corner of Glen's mouth, as quiet as it is appreciative, before he accepts Gilbert's sheepish tokens with a gentle hand. Plucking the brightest bluebell out of the cluster, he holds it out to the boy and watches his nervous expression shift into something as bright and sunny as such a pale boy can manage. Sucking in a delighted gasp, Gilbert timidly reaches out for the flower, but not before glancing back up at Glen as if to ask for permission twice over.

"And for _you_," Glen says, taking hold of Gilbert's hand and curling his delicate fingers around the bluebell's stem. "Keep this somewhere safe. You won't want to crush it."

Gilbert's only response is a breathless nod and a small, excited hop on his feet, looking as if he may very well burst at the seams what with his sudden upheaval of emotion. Glen picks out a stray leaf clinging to the boy's hair and flicks it away before patting him lightly on the head, watching his sun-bright eyes wince momentarily, only to soften and stare up at him as if witnessing salvation itself. The bluebell is tucked carefully between his fingers, fragile and fine.

"Run along now," Glen says softly, and Gilbert jolts back to alertness before nodding and flitting off, his shirttails fluttering like the feathers of a dove behind him.

/

A century later, Gilbert will wonder why the sight of bluebells makes his stomach twist, or why there's always a hushed breath of horror that ghosts through his lungs whenever spring breaks lucid and brilliant outside his window. It's a glory and a brightness that he has no right touching on his own; but instead of thinking on it, he simply shuts the blinds and returns to his coffee, ignoring the vague swell of something like nostalgia creeping into his stomach that makes him feel slightly ill.

Like always, Gilbert supposes he's better off not knowing.


End file.
